


drawing of unknown youth, ca 1317

by misura



Category: The Golden Key - Kate Elliottt & Melanie Rawn & Jennifer Roberseon
Genre: Bechdel Test Fail, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-10 06:44:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2015025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He takes shape on her paper slowly, almost reluctantly - a boy, aged twelve or thirteen, the tone of his skin dark, even for a Grijalva.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	drawing of unknown youth, ca 1317

He takes shape on her paper slowly, almost reluctantly - a boy, aged twelve or thirteen, the tone of his skin dark, even for a Grijalva (and he is, plainly, a Grijalva), his eyes bright, his mouth hinting at a smile that might fully show itself at any moment; he is extending one hand to the observer, empty, a gesture that holds equal parts of pleading and command - _Come with me_ is the plainest message, the _please_ added so softly one might barely hear it at all.

(The smile, if it shows itself, would be sweet enough, Eleyna feels. _Zhi, and arrogant, too_ for so it is, with boys such as these.)

"Neosso irrado." It is an old term, almost archaic. Still used, among the Grijalvas, if little outside of the family.

"Yes," Saavedra says, softly, gently adding the last few lines before she signs the drawing. "Always," and it occurs to Eleyna, belatedly, who this neosso irrado is, who this must be, that Saavedra can draw him without his presence, without any previously done studies or sketches.

_She loved him,_ Eleyna thinks, and then, because it is impossible not to see, at least to her, _she still does_. She knows herself, of course, how one may love and despise someone at the same time.

"Regretto." They have, neither of them, visited the Galleria much, since _The Mirror of the Soul_ has been hung there, hailed as Saavedra's masterpiece, which it is, naturally, if perhaps not so much as a painting.

Of the sketches and drawings done by the Saavedra of three hundred years ago, none remain.

_Her first work done in the present._ Impossible, intolerable, for people to name it as her masterpiece, when she has barely even begun to paint, to familiarize herself with the new techniques, the new paints, the new possibilities.

"No," Saavedra says, shaking her head. "No regrets. Like my Alejandro, he is dust. As with Alejandro, I shall cherish his memory, but I cannot spend my days mourning the past. It is done. Besides, there is too much work that yet remains in the present."

Eleyna groans, but it is hard not to smile, to feel relieved to be able to turn her mind away from the subject of Sario Grijalva. "Did you have to remind me?"

Saavedra laughs and rolls up the drawing. It will be stored somewhere, Eleyna thinks; the historians may some day puzzle over the identity of the youth. She doubts they will identify him correctly.


End file.
